The Big Scam (8 page)

When they were within earshot of the others in the front room, DeMiglia asked, “When's the last time you had this place swept for bugs?”

“I don't know.”

“Weren't you told a minimum once a month? I have my joint and car done once a week. That's the way they always get us. But they'll never get me. Why the fuck can't you people understand that?”

Outside, the underboss scanned the neighborhood for anything out of the ordinary. The clouds had cleared and the heat had again become oppressive. They walked for a block before DeMiglia spoke again. “So, I assume you talked to Baldovino.”

“I had a long talk with him.”

“Where is that stupid fuck?”

“I've got him doing something for me.”

“Selling handicapped license plates, what kind of a thing is that for a grown man to do? First the thing with the bridges and now this.” Parisi looked at him. “What, you didn't think I knew about him being afraid of bridges? Everybody knows.”

This time Parisi was careful to keep emotion out of his voice. “I'm taking care of it.” With forced nonchalance, he lit a cigarette to further demonstrate that there was no need for concern.

“See, that's exactly what I mean. You say you're taking care of it, and then nothing happens. Meanwhile your crew isn't making a cent. On top of that you're making us look ridiculous in front of the whole world. You know I've got people to answer to. Both inside the family and on the commission. They ain't going to like this thing with the license plates. Not only is the whole world laughing at us, so are the other families. You know the one thing that makes our thing work—it's fear. After that article, who's going to be afraid of us? Motherfucking FBI!”

“Manny's a guy who acts without thinking.”

“That doesn't make me enthusiastic about his future.”

“His heart's in the right place.” Parisi regretted the statement as soon as he said it.

“His heart's in the right place
? What do you think this is, some fucking soap opera? What we do isn't about good intentions, it's about money. I didn't come here to start trouble, but I was given this position to make sure business is good and that nobody goes to prison. And so far, everybody else is doing all right. I know the don's your uncle, but while he's sick, I've got to do what I've got to do.”

“Okay, what is it that you think you have to do?”

“To get you to start contributing, and the sooner the better.”

“And what if I can't?”

“There is no
can't.”

“It's just that—”

“Do you want to keep this crew?”

Even though at the moment he wasn't sure, Parisi knew the best answer. “Yes.”

“I'm going out of my way to give you a perfect score and you're whining. You know why? Because you didn't earn this. You're the only captain in the whole family who hasn't filled a contract. You have paid
no
dues. Here's your chance. Are you ready to uphold your commitment, your oath to this family?”

Parisi had to see his uncle. He lit another cigarette off the first and inhaled deeply. “Yes.”

“That's more like it. This score can't miss. I've been sitting on it for a while. Ten million minimum.”

“Ten million, and it can't miss? I thought the bigger the score the bigger the risks.”

“Why is it that people think if they're fucking pessimists, they'll be taken as some sort of expert. Who's done more scores, you or me?”

“You have.”

“Mikey, these are the kind of numbers you need to respect your uncle. To bring yourself into the fold so to speak.” Parisi gave him a reluctant, appeasing nod. “Good. This is a hit on one of those vaults down in the diamond district.”

“The diamond district? I always heard there were more off-duty cops on that stretch of Forty-seventh Street than are on duty in the rest of Manhattan.”

“I've got a guy who will take you inside. You know Jackie Two Shoes across the river?”

“The bookie.”

“Yeah, he's got this yid that's into him for a little over two hundred K on sports bets. He's one of them Orthodox Jews, you know with the hats and the curls—”

“You mean Hasidic,” Parisi said.

DeMiglia just shook his head. “He works in one of those big buildings down there. Jackie says if I buy his paper and send someone big enough to explain our payment plan, he'll do whatever we want. According to Jackie, at this time of the year, there's at least ten million in uncut stones.”

“Are you talking about during the day?”

“Those vaults are all on time locks, so, yeah, during the day.”

“So there will be witnesses.”

“Hey, it's ten million. Do you know how many times in your life you're going to see that number? Probably never. So if there's a problem that needs to be taken care of, you take care of it.”

The idea of murdering innocent people sent a wave of disgust down Parisi's spine. That DeMiglia was suggesting it so offhandedly indicated that his real purpose was something more complicated than boosting the family revenue. The don would know. But until Parisi could see him, he had to stall. “How many witnesses do you figure?”

“Including the guy taking you in, three or four tops. Who the fuck cares? They're Jews, they're used to dying.”

“Multiple murders don't go unsolved in this city.”

“You're a smart guy, you'll be the first. This is a courtesy I'm extending you, an accommodation out of respect for the don. If you don't take it, I will feel insulted and certain adjustments will have to be made.”

If “adjustments” was meant to be vague, it wasn't. “But what does ten million come to fenced?”

Anger crackled across DeMiglia's face. “It comes to a fuck of a lot more than you're making right now.”

Both men walked in silence for a while before DeMiglia spoke again. “Your uncle—although I have the deepest respect for him—isn't the man he once was. Everyone thinks of him as semi-retired, at best. I've been pretty much handling the day-to-day operation since his stroke.” He took out a handkerchief and wiped the sweat from his forehead and upper lip. “My first priority is to improve the economy. I'll call you in a few days when I get this thing worked out. Don't tell anybody until I do, you understand?”

When Parisi didn't answer, DeMiglia grabbed his elbow. “Mike, don't get on my enemies list, it comes with a lifetime guarantee…which usually isn't all that long.”

DESPITE THE THICK WALL OF PLEXIGLAS BETWEEN
the receptionist and Charles Lansing, he couldn't help but feel a little intimidated. She had hard New York eyes, black female hard. But he had no choice but to deal with her.

The name on the door said Global Fish, and while he could see no visible evidence that the small building housed an FBI operation, he knew it was the right place. He could smell banana oil, an odor familiar from as far back as new agent training at Quantico. It was the most pungent ingredient in the solvent used to remove exploded cordite from their weapons. Behind the vaguely mercantile façade of Global Fish, someone was cleaning a gun.

From everything he had been led to expect of this squad—its personnel problems and the lack of motivation—that someone was conscientiously maintaining a firearm, to ready himself for the almost impossible chance of close combat, seemed the severest of contradictions.

The receptionist asked coolly, “May I help you?” He could tell from the flat, impatient delivery of her words that she knew exactly who he was—the enemy.

Trying to muster some of the condescension used with subordinates at FBI headquarters, he said, “Charles Lansing…with the
inspection
staff.”

“May I see your credentials, sir?” “Sir” had a slightly insulting edge to it. Both of them knew her request, which could be defended as procedural, was really being used as a brief reversal of power to say,
This is the real FBI. You are, at best, an inconvenience.
She didn't let him see it, but a bit of pleasure pulled at the outer corners of her eyes as Lansing fumbled through his briefcase. He held up his credentials to the glass.

After checking the photo, she made one final appraisal of his face and then reached under her desk. A loud metallic clank sounded off to the inspector's right. He looked for its source and saw that a section of the wall was hinged and had opened slightly. A few seconds later, the woman pushed out the door. “Sorry for the Dungeon and Dragons. This neighborhood specializes in walk-in weirdos.”

For the briefest moment, he considered an attempt at charm, to ask good-naturedly if he was that indistinguishable from the local rabble, but her answer might be another veiled, unpunishable insult.

Leading him through a narrow maze of right-angle turns, past cinder-block walls and cheap paneling, the receptionist came to a small windowless office. “Nick, that inspector's here.”

“Thanks, Abby.” Vanko rose and offered his hand with unexpected warmth. “Nick Vanko.”

Lansing noticed the drooping right side of his face, but forced himself to lock onto Vanko's eyes. “Charles Lansing.”

“You found us okay? It can be a little tricky.”

“Yes, in fact, I didn't have any trouble until I ran into your receptionist. Is she that testy with everybody?”

“Sorry about that. Actually she's the squad secretary. She can be a little territorial, probably because she pretty much runs the place. Once you get past her growl, she's hard to live without.”

“I'm only going to be here a month, which probably wouldn't be enough time.”

The left side of Vanko's face smiled disarmingly, diplomatically, making Lansing feel a little petty. “So what are you going to need from us?”

Lansing took out a thick stack of forms. “I've gone through all the interrogatories. They're pretty straightforward. You have nine agents on the squad?”

“With me, ten.”

The point was not lost on Lansing. Vanko considered himself an agent, which all managers were but most would not claim. Lansing suspected that ground rules were being put in place. “I'm going to need to interview each of them.”

“Some of them aren't available. One is serving a forty-five-day suspension. One is at a two-week in-service at Quantico. Two are more or less working a permanent wire for the strike force. One is assigned to a security observation post in Manhattan. He'll be gone for three months.”

“Sounds like when it comes to getting crappy jobs, your squad is taken advantage of.”

“As long as their checks show up every two weeks, I don't think you'll hear any complaints from them.”

“And your squad, as a primary mission, is assigned one of the regimes of the Galante crime family?”

“That's right, the Michael Parisi crew,” Vanko said.

“And how's that going?”

“Has anyone told you about the Galante family? Most of their made members are from the same town in Sicily, so they are extremely close-knit. They have a great deal of allegiance to one another, making them extremely difficult to compromise. That's why the family has been broken down and squads assigned specific regimes.”

“You're telling me this to explain your squad's lack of statistical accomplishments.”

“Isn't that what inspections are all about? You find problems, and I make up excuses to explain them away?”

Strangely, Lansing didn't think Vanko's answer was meant to be amusing, or even masked sarcasm. Nor did he seem intent on gaining absolution. Rather, it had a self-contained, almost naïve honesty that made Lansing uncomfortable because it meant that this supervisor wasn't afraid of him. That was not the atmosphere in which Lansing wanted to conduct his inquiry. Too much civility could mute the bright lights by which flaws were exposed. “Let's face it, every agent on your squad, at one time or another, should have been fired.”

Vanko waited a moment, then said, “Is that a question?”

“Let's make it one.”

“Most of these agents were sent here due to, let's say, incompatibilities on other squads. But not one of them has had a problem since arriving.”

“Are any of these ‘incompatibilities' currently being investigated by OPR?”

“Two members of this squad have open cases with the Office of Professional Responsibility. Yes.”

Vanko's use of the full name rather than the more colloquial “OPR” made the unit sound excessively pedantic, as though those under investigation were victims of some extreme enforcement of all-but-expired rules. “Let's try this a different way. Have any of the agents assigned to your squad ever been fired?”

“Yes.”

“For?”

“A variety of things.”

“You're not going to make this easy for me, are you?”

“Just tell me what you're looking for me to make easy.”

While the response contained a latent resistance to the line of questioning, he couldn't help but warm to Vanko's manner. Maybe it was his voice, low and unrushed, its persuasion contagious.

“My job.”

“Isn't it your job to evaluate how this squad is performing? Past problems have either been punished or are being investigated by OPR. Whenever an agent has been reassigned to this squad, the first thing I tell him is that he has to answer only for what he does, or doesn't do, while he's here.”

Vanko was right; investigations of misconduct were not within the scope of Lansing's responsibilities unless they happened to be uncovered during inspection. He decided that coming on too strong might prove counterproductive. “I was just curious. You know, trying to get a feel for your personnel. It must be difficult trying to get things done never knowing how long an agent is going to be with you.”

Jack Straker walked in and tossed some paperwork into Vanko's in box. When he noticed Lansing sitting off to the side, he said, “Oh, sorry, Nick, I didn't know anyone was in here.”

“This is Charles Lansing, he'll be inspecting the squad.”

He extended his hand. “Jack Straker.”

Although the thought of taking on an entire squad of problem agents was somewhat overwhelming, it had been Lansing's experience that the actual size of an enemy was never as large as its reputation. Each of the agents had been sent there because of an inability to comply with rules. And Lansing knew the rules as well as anyone. He stood up and shook hands.

Straker was big and good-looking. He looked directly at the person he was talking to, giving the impression that, until proven otherwise, that person was worth getting to know better. A bandage above his right eye appeared to be covering stitches. Lansing found this a promising inconsistency. Attractive people were usually more careful. It told Lansing that he had found a possible starting point. “Nice to meet you, Jack. What happened to your head?”

Straker smiled artfully. “An automobile accident.”

“Bureau car?”

“Actually, no.” He backed out of the office. “I'll get out of your way. Nice to meet you.”

Lansing made a mental note of Straker's evasion. “I've been told that your squad also does special projects. Like what?”

“Mostly surveillance. Special photography or videotaping. Basically anything that others don't have the time or desire to do.”

“And that doesn't bother you?”

Vanko laughed. “Not as long as we're asked nicely.”

“Let's get back to your lack of stats.”

“Well, we did arrest one of Parisi's crew recently.”

“The guy selling the handicapped plates.”

“I know it's not exactly a contract murder, but it is an arrest. We did have the satisfaction of getting a UCA next to one of them. And who knows, maybe he'll have a change of heart and roll over.”

“This undercover agent, he was Bureau approved?”

“That's the rule.”

“And your squad always follows the rules.”

“I doubt that you'll find anything to indicate otherwise.”

It was clear that, if pushed hard enough, Vanko would be defiant. Up to that point, his diplomacy and powers of persuasion had been impressive, but Lansing felt he had found a vulnerable spot. “I've got to go back to the office, but starting tomorrow, I intend to spend most of my time here. I assume you have no problem with that.”

Vanko stood up. “We'll be here.”

“I hope I'm not going to have to be strip-searched again to get in.”

Vanko took a key out of his desk drawer and handed it to Lansing. “You can come in through the back. The door next to the garage. That's the way we get in. Just park around back. There's a spot marked Visitor.”

He had to hand it to Vanko, to wrangle this bunch of misfits successfully took creative leadership. But there were inherent advantages in supervising agents who were in trouble. Each one arrived with his livelihood dangling precariously, leaving him little choice but to be dutiful.

He looked again at the supervisor's face, trying to decide if it had been handsome before being injured. Its recesses had the smoky Mediterranean darkness that appealed to some women, but Lansing suspected that without its distracting damage, Vanko's face would probably look oversculpted, too susceptible to emotion, too European. But apparently Vanko had learned to draw strength from the disfigurement. It gave him purpose.